The Landsmeet
by waiting4morning
Summary: Dragon Age Origins drabbles. Some serious, some humorous. Based on prompts and random ideas. Various characters and pairings.
1. Faithless

_A/N: When I played my femAmell, I wondered why she betrayed Jowan to the First Enchanter. This story explores why._

* * *

Betrayal. Eleyna Amell could smell it on her clothes, her skin as she stood in the First Enchanter's office. The words about Jowan and Lily's escape plan come out of her mouth, but it was almost as if someone else was speaking them. _Is this what it's like to be possessed? _she wondered absently. _To hear yourself say things you'd never say; to do things you know you'd never do?_ Only blood magic could compel one to do something against their will, but she had something worse than blood magic: jealousy.

#

_How could he? _Eleyna seethed, walking as swiftly from the chapel as her new mage robes would allow.

"_What about us?"_

_The look of surprise on his face almost hurt more than his words. "You and... me? But you're like a sister...!"_

Eleyna passed Cullen, whose gauntleted hand rose halfway and paused as if to wave at her but then thinking better of it. She could feel his eyes on her as she paced down the corridor, and she felt another stab of pain.

The other apprentice girls had teased her about her virginal bookishness, about how she'd rather read than lay with a man. It wasn't true , but Eleyna couldn't tell them that, not when the very thought of Jowan even touching her cheek made her blush, and her heart ache with longing.

It was Jowan she hesitantly confided in about the teasing, hoping to stir something... hoping he'd see the answer in her eyes. Instead his smile had widened into mischievous glee. _Cullen_, he'd whispered and she'd blinked in owlish confusion.

"That templar fellow down the hall. He's always looking at you, or haven't you noticed?"

"The templars always watch. It's what they do," she'd replied, confused.

"No, no. I mean, he _watches_ you." Jowan leaned close confidentially, and Eleyna felt her breath hitch in her throat as his hand casually brushed against hers. "You could get him to fall in love with you—that would shut those girls up, especially Lara. The best she can do is Humbert, and he's practically tranquil."

And she had done it. Why? She wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was thrill of the hunt finally awakening in her eighteen-year-old heart. Maybe she really did want to silence Lara and the others. Maybe she hoped that her act would really capture the templar's heart, and Jowan would realize his mistake. But the more Cullen stammered and blushed around her, the more Jowan seemed to enjoy it. Lara's pointed remarks became more and more desperate, and Eleyna knew she should feel a sense of power. But then she would catch a glimpse of the desperate loneliness behind Cullen's eyes and wonder why she'd been so willing to sacrifice a man's happiness in hopes of securing her own. She tried to tell herself that he was just a templar and they didn't care unless you slipped up and then they would care enough to slit your throat... but she couldn't even convince herself of that. Behind the plate armor was just a man, and the irony of it was she probably had more in common with Cullen than he realized. They both wanted the unattainable.

Then came her Harrowing. Though everyone complimented her on a job well done, she had never felt more torn, like a piece of paper ripped loose from a notebook and left to flutter around in a stray breeze. The sparking texture of lyrium still lingered on her tongue as she realized how very easy it was to trip up, to stumble, and then a demon would have you and all would be lost. What point was there in dithering around flirting with templars whose dark eyes were more like tunnels to be lost in? She didn't want to be lost—she wanted to be found.

No more. She would tell Jowan how she felt and they would be together. They had dreamed once, when they were both gangly, awkward apprentices and the cold nights of the tower were warm when shared with a friend. Eleyna had dreamed of having a family someday; Jowan of gaining a place of trust with an arl or bann, like Enchanter Wilhelm had with the Arl of Redcliffe during the rebellion against the Orlesians more than 20 years ago.

All that was needed was for Jowan to complete his Harrowing then they would convince Irving to let them out of the Circle, and they would be happy.

But that would never happen. Instead she stood and watched, numb, as Jowan's phylactery shattered on the cold stone floor. Part of her hadn't actually believed he would do it. She had been convinced that he would get there, lose his nerve, and she would lead them out and be able to convince Irving that there was no need for Jowan to be made tranquil. Of course the First Enchanter would listen, she was his favorite student...

"I'm free!" Jowan breathed.

"Jowan, I need to tell you something." The words spurted out her like the blood from the phial and soon she was sobbing "I'm so sorry" over and over again as the sound of Jowan's footsteps retreated from her.

Wiping the tears from her face, streaking dust over her cheeks, Eleyna followed. She wouldn't let Jowan face the templars alone. One betrayal was enough: no more. Not ever.

-fin-


	2. Brothers

_Prompted by a discussion on how Cailan felt about Alistair._

* * *

Alistair rubbed the cloth in smooth circles over his sword, letting the oil do its work on the steel. Glancing at the newest Warden across the fire, he couldn't help but wonder about the coming battle—one they would not be participating in directly. Lighting a glorified torch—is that all Grey Warden recruits were useful for then? The newest Warden was silent, staring into the flames. Alistair wondered briefly what shadows darkened her past, but Duncan hadn't been explicit about the circumstances surrounding her recruitment. He had gathered that they weren't pleasant.

"Hail, Grey Wardens," said a cheerful voice. Alistair looked up and then stood to his feet so quickly that his sword dropped to the ground with a clatter.

"Y-Your Majesty!"

King Cailan, a perpetual smile on his good-natured face, walked into the circle around the fire.

"Are you and your fellow new recruit ready for the glory to be gained on the field of battle?"

Alistair blinked, not quite sure how to respond since neither he nor the newest Warden would be on the battlefield. _No thanks to the king's "personal request,"_ Alistair thought with a trace of bitterness. He glanced at the other Warden. Her face was a little hard to read. "We, uh, are prepared to do our duty, Your Majesty."

"Excellent," the king said, peering around. "Say, Duncan isn't here, is he?"

_So that's what he wanted. _Alistair relaxed a fraction. "No, Sire. He went to confer with the Wardens at the front lines. I could send a messenger..."

"No need. I actually wanted to speak with you, Alistair. Alone, if you don't mind."

"With me?" Alistair couldn't have been more surprised if the king had suddenly pulled out a lute and started singing a bawdy tune. He'd never spoken to the king before… unless that awkward childhood greeting counted. But then one could hardly call it a conversation when the princeling had run off to examine the swords in Arl Eamon's armory as soon as Alistair had said "hello."

"Are there any other Alistairs about that I should be aware of?" The king chuckled.

"Ah, no, Your Majesty."

"I… I'll go see if the quartermaster is still up," the other Warden said. Alistair wanted to call out for her to stay, but he held his tongue and waited for the king to speak first as the soft footsteps faded into the night.

"Aren't you the lucky one? The first female Grey Warden in a long time and you get to have her all to yourself." Cailan said with a grin. "She's quite lovely."

"I... hadn't... that is..." Alistair fumbled his words, unsure of how to respond. She _was_ beautiful, but he wasn't about to admit that to the king.

"Here's the thing, Alistair. I thought I owed you an explanation." Cailan turned around, pacing in front of the fire pit.

"An explanation for what?" The abrupt change of topic caught him off guard.

"For sending you to the Tower for such a simple mission and with a raw recruit." The king's pale eyes glanced again in the direction she'd gone. "Not that some alone time with _her_ would be a bad thing... Keeping you from the battle—I did not mean this as an insult."

Alistair stood for a moment, watching the flickering shadows from the fire play over the king's face.

"Is this the part where I tearfully thank you for your beneficence?" The retreat into humor was as instinctive as raising his shield to block an incoming blow. He winced inwardly at the cavalier tone, knowing what Duncan would say if he had hear him.

"If you like." Cailan grinned. "But in all seriousness, you can't be ignorant of your value, Alistair, should the worst happen in the battle."

"My value?"

"Must you be so dense? The throne, dear _brother. _With no heir awaiting me at home, you are in direct line—"

Alistair shook his head, panic welling inside of him. "No. No way. I never wanted the throne—I'm not an heir, whatever you may think. Maric did not want—"

"Maric did not anticipate that his best friend's daughter might be barren." Cailan's voice was quiet, just low enough for Alistair to hear.

"What? The queen—?" Alistair shut his mouth so fast his teeth clacked together. This conversation wasn't happening; it couldn't be.

"Anora insists that nothing is wrong; that a little more effort would solve our… problem." The fire flickered on the king's pale hair. "But if we put forth any more effort than we already have, we'd be in bed all day."

Alistair was glad for the darkness as it hid the blush he felt spreading across his cheeks. Of all the conversations he had thought might happen between himself and his half-brother, _this_ one had never entered his imagination.

"Does... does Teyrn Loghain know?" He couldn't help but ask, curious despite himself.

"No." Cailan shook his head and then turned back to face Alistair with a smile. "After the battle is won, I will send for healers from the Circle to assist in our little problem, but for now, it is you—the last of Calenhad's line—who must be protected."

Alistair set his jaw. "I don't _need_ protection. I'm perfectly capable—"

"Yes, yes, you're quite skilled, and I should be well pleased to cross blades with you when this Blight is over," Cailan said, waving a hand. "But for now, I am putting you out of danger, and it will give you a chance to show your new Warden the ropes. Don't be so gloomy. Loghain's plan is perfect, as usual, and I'll be in no risk of handing the throne to you. I just wanted to let you know that I thought it the best contingency plan—especially if the archdemon appears." Cailan's eyes seemed to glow with excitement at the thought. "What a glorious moment that will be! You will have the best view from the Tower when Duncan slays the beast and the world will sing praises of the Grey Wardens like in the old days."

Alistair stared at the other man, hysteria threatening to burst out in babbling and awkward jokes. With an effort he tamped it down. "Why... why are you telling me this? I would have gone to the Tower whether you told me this or not. I will not shirk my duty. Duncan told me that you requested me for this mission, so I shall do it."

Cailan came up to him and for a brief moment the expression on his face was so familiar that it was like looking into a mirror. "Despite what you think, despite what you may have been told... I have always thought it would be nice to have a brother." Cailan clapped his hand down on Alistair's shoulder and walked away, his armor creaking in the silence.

* * *

_A/N: For what it's worth, I don't actually think Anora was barren, but this was written way back when the theory was going around fandom, so it's included as an idea at least._


	3. Party Dialogue

_A/N: An attempt at party dialogue. Alistair/femWarden._

_

* * *

_

**Sten and Alistair**

"Templar."

"You know, you can call me Alistair."

"I wish to know what your intentions are toward the kadan."

"The… kadan? Oh right, that's your cute, little nickname for her…"

"It is term of respect, _not_ a 'cute, little nickname.'"

"If you say so… As for my intentions… why do you ask?"

"Because I wish to know how sharp I should make my sword."

"Ooookay, I'm going to stand behind Shale now."

* * *

**Alistair and Wynne**

"Wynne, I need help. I think Sten is going to kill me."

"If he wanted to kill you, I think you'd be dead already."

"But you haven't seen the looks he's been giving me! I swear I'm this close to being skewered on that giant qunari sword that we found for him."

"That _she_ found, you mean."

"Hey, I was there! I… watched while… she… oh all right, _she_ did all the finding."

"Good boy."

* * *

**Alistair and Sten**

"I love her, if you must know."

"Oh? And why tell me?"

"Because you were so very curious about it the other day! I thought I should… clear the air."

"What you feel is of no concern to me. If you wish to… dabble with mages that smell of swamp gas then—"

"WHAT? No, no, no, no! I'm not talking about Morrigan!"

"Good."

"Why 'good'?"

"Because if you were dabbling with swamp witches without the kadan's assent, I would take it upon myself to perform an honor hunt."

"I may regret asking, but what is involved in an 'honor hunt'?"

"Ritual dismemberment."

"I… I think I feel a bit queasy."

* * *

**Sten and Alistair**

"I will be your second, when the time comes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your second—for the bridal raid. You have no brothers and all your friends were killed at Ostagar, therefore I will act as your second."

"Wait, wait just one minute. What are you talking about, and _what_ in Andraste's name is a 'bridal raid'?"

"Are all Fereldans as dense as you are? Everyone in camp knows that you have visited the kadan's tent for—"

"Okay, okay you don't to shout it like that! Just tell me what a bridal raid is."

"I am trying to. When a man has made his intentions clear to the bride of his choice, he and his second will kidnap the bride and take her to a suitable location."

"Dare I ask what happens at this 'suitable location'?"

"You send your second to procure a dowry from the bride's family—though in her case the tattooed elf might be an apt substitute, I think, and the senior mage as well."

"Wait a minute! I am not going to kidnap… _her_! That's insanity! And illegal!"

"You do not wish to have a whole week alone with your intended with no interruptions?"

"I…um… can I think about this first?"

* * *

**femWarden, Alistair, and Sten**

"Ergh... hey, what's going on, are we being attacked?"

"Um... no."

"Alistair? What are you doing? Hey! Put me down!"

"Run faster, Templar!"

"I'm trying!"

"Sten? By Andraste's flaming knickers, if someone doesn't tell me what's going on right now-!"

"Forgive me, kadan, but this gag is for your own good."

"Mmmph!"

-fin-

* * *

_A/N: I love how Wynne and Alistair have so many party dialogues, especially when your PC and Alistair are involved. I had hoped that Sten would make a comment or two about the relationship as well, but sadly, that is not the case. So I decided to write my own. _


	4. Rock

_A/N: dwarves!_

_

* * *

_

_Breathe, Natia._ But that was hard too. The air was different topside; it didn't taste like a smelter's sweat and ore mixed together. It was... clear; almost sweet. _By the Stone, what am I doing?_

"Are you okay?"

Natia craned her neck to look up at the tall Grey Warden, blinking in the—what did they call it?—sunlight.

"Yeah," she said in a small voice and cleared her throat. "Yeah, I'm good," she said again in her usual brusque manner. "It's just... big." She avoided looking at the sky (the word bounced across her mind, unfamiliar and somewhat threatening) and settled for glaring at the Orzammmar guard who was leering at the brand on her face.

Duncan the Grey Warden was already walking down the wide steps that led up to the Gate. Natia followed as fast as her oddly weak knees would allow, not ready to admit aloud the relief that she didn't fall up, up, up into that never-ending blue—_eyes down at the ground, Natia_. She paused on the last step looking back at the mountain that been her home, her life. Then she looked at Duncan's back, solid and steady as the stone beneath her feet. She could do this.

_There's rock here too._

_-fin-  
_


	5. 1sentence femMahariel and Zevran

From the LJ 1sentence community challenge. Theme set Epsilon. femMahariel/Zevran with a side-helping of unrequited!Alistair

I used my Dalish elf's name, Bryony, since it was a little confusing to keep saying "she" and "her" all the time. Sentences go in chronological order.

* * *

#15 - Hold

"Cold, _lethlellan_?" Tamlen's murmured words are soft in the chill air of the cave, but she is warmed through when his fingers entwine with hers.

#06 - Gentle

The Keeper's words are gentle, but they stab like blades: Bryony doesn't want to leave; if she must die from this taint then she would die surrounded by her family.

#23 - Child

When Bryony was young, the Keeper called her "Child of the Wind" with fond exasperation for it seemed that her feet took her everywhere the playful breeze roamed—how strange now that she wishes so desperately to stay rooted with her tribe forever.

#26 - Goodbye

They expect her to be strong, so she is as she walks through her clan, Duncan's large shadow at her back, but she has to turn away at the last minute lest they see the tears in her eyes as she says one last "goodbye."

#45 - Naked

The naked grief in Alistair's eyes is almost too much to bear; for a moment she forgets that he is _shemlen _and she _elvhen_—but perhaps there are some things that even elves and humans have in common.

#14 – Command

Alistair is too overcome by sorrow and shock, so she takes control of the situation instinctively, hoping the _shemlen _won't resent her for doing what needs to be done.

#41 - Power

It is at Redcliffe Castle when all are looking to her to make the decision about young Connor that Bryony feels the power of life and death most acutely and she wishes, not for the first time, that she was instead walking with Tamlen in the forest.

#38 - Wash

As she lowers herself into the heated bath in Redcliffe Castle, she is disgusted, but not surprised, at the amount of filth that comes off in the water—after all, she hasn't bathed properly since before Ostagar.

#20 - Picture

The picture—a simple watercolor—is small but the way Sten's large hands cradle the painting with a care normally reserved for his sword, she wonders if there is more to this admitted murderer than meets the eye.

#13 - Change

It hits her, as she sits around the campfire one night listening to Leliana sing and Morrigan and Alistair bicker, that her heart—once so empty after leaving her tribe—has slowly been adopting these strange companions as her new clan.

#01 - Motion

The elven assassin is a blur of motion at the corner of Bryony's eye and as they whirl and parry, she is chilled to see no regret behind his golden eyes, only cold intent.

#02 - Cool

The pain from her wounded shoulder grows too great to bear, so with great reluctance she lets the human mage use her foreign magic, only to find that the power emanating from the old woman's hand is pleasantly cool.

#18 - Attention

The cat arches her back against Zevran's playful fingers, nudging his hand for more; absurdly, she has to look away telling herself that it's foolish to be jealous of a cat.

#50 - Believe

She has been devoted to the Creators since she was a child, yet she feels this faith shaken to the core as everything that occurred in the quest for the Urn of Sacred Ashes crashes through her mind.

#22 – Mad

If the all-knowing Guardian of the Ashes at the gate wasn't clue enough, Bryony knows when she sees Tamlen step out of the shadows looking whole and hale that she must be going mad.

#03 - Young

Bryony is totally unlike the lovers he usually pursues, Zevran thinks, watching her from across the campfire as she plays with the dog, so young and fresh and innocent, yet so very intriguing despite these normally boring traits.

#19 - Soul

As _hahren _Sarel's murmuring story filters through the air, Bryony feels herself relax for the first time in a long while—this Dalish tribe was not hers, but it is home all the same and here her soul can be at peace.

#30 – Ghost

When Ghenya kisses Cammen's cheek, Bryony thinks she sees a similar scene from only a year before: Tamlen and herself, dreaming of the future.

#27 – Hide

Her instinct is to trust Zathrian, so she kills the werewolves without question; but she couldn't stop the niggling thought that he was hiding something.

#40 – History

The ruins where the werewolves make their den are light and beautiful and make her yearn for something she's only heard stories of; Elvhenan, the place of her peoples' hearts.

#12 - Wait

Zevran doesn't know what to do about "wait;" there had been plenty of "no's" in his life, though always in that playful "please don't stop" tone of voice, but when she said "wait" he had a feeling that she meant it.

#16 - Need

The first time Bryony seeks out his tent, nothing happens; not that Zevran wasn't hoping something would occur, but when he saw her tear-stained face he knew what she needed was simple companionship and surprisingly, that was enough for him for now.

#49 - Hunger

The innocent kisses in the moonlight with Tamlen are a mere shadow of the hollow yearning she feels whenever his eyes met hers.

#10 – Learn

The gleam of triumph in Morrigan's eyes as Bryony hands her the grimoire make her realize that darkspawn aren't the only enemies to look out for.

#11 – Blur

Alistair is like a brother to her, but there are times—like when she saw him shirtless by the river, water streaming over his chest—when her feelings waver, just a bit.

#08 - Thousand

She has envisioned meeting Tamlen a thousand times, in a thousand different settings, yet never in a thousand years would she have imagined staring him down over the point of her blade.

#25 - Shadow

She tries to tell herself that thing was not Tamlen, but she knows it's in vain, for there was a glimmer, a shadow of what he once was in that ruined face.

#47 - Harm

"It was a mercy," Alistair reassures her after Tamlen's death, but she spends the rest of the night staring at the blood on her blade and remembering a laughing elven boy who pulled her braids.

#36 - Stop

She is breathless and flustered when Zevran pushes her gently away to say, "As much as I want to you keep going, my lovely, you know as well as I that if you go through with this tonight—when the grief is fresh in your heart—that you will regret that you ever saw me and that will never do."

#48 - Precious

Zevran is both surprised and dismayed by the feelings he detects in his heart toward his little Dalish Warden; lovers are to be enjoyed, certainly, but this feeling of how precious she has become to him is dangerous indeed.

#34 - Sing

Bryony has managed to push aside thoughts of home and clan because of the desperate nature of their mission, but when Leliana sings the "Ballad of Lost Arlathan," she has to leave the fireside or risk breaking down completely.

#37 – Time

She has grieved and grown; the shades of the past linger in her mind, but as bittersweet memories, not as regrets to weigh her down, and when she slips into Zevran's tent tonight, she will be able to face him truly free.

#05 - Wrong

He is only half-Dalish and he isn't Tamlen—doesn't resemble him in body, mind, or spirit—but when his hands touch her, all sense of wrong turns to right.

#07 - One

She can't help but ask him how many lovers he has at the moment and is totally unprepared for the way he looks into her eyes and says, "only one."

#31 - Book

She asks him once, in the shadows of his tent as his fingers roam her skin, how he knew she was ready, and his answer was simple: "I have the art of reading people, _cara mia_, and your face tells a lovely story."

#21 – Fool

"Whoever thought I should be the one to choose a king for Orzammar has been eating wild toadstools," Bryony grumbles, and Zevran hides his grin.

#04 – Last

A Dalish elf was never meant to go weeks without seeing the sun and as Bryony sits up through the night, yet again, next to their pitiful fire against the blackness of the Deep Roads, she repeats a one of the few songs her people knew in their own language as a talisman against the endless night.

#35 – Sudden

Zevran realizes that he loves her as he watches her neatly behead a hurlock with the grace any dancer would envy.

#17 - Vision

When the last putrid tentacle of the Broodmother falls still, Bryony falls to her knees, retching on the filth covered rock; Alistair would never say so, but she knew that this was what awaited her if she didn't die during her Calling

#42 – Bother

Zevran had never been possessive of his of his past lovers—they were always free to do as they pleased—but he finds himself oddly annoyed when he catches Oghren ogling Bryony from behind.

#44 – Wall

When she said that Alistair would marry Anora, the look of betrayal on his face is almost too much to bear and soon Bryony sees a wall come up behind his eyes and knows that nothing will ever be the same.

#24 – Now

"You've earned this ten times over, you know," Zevran murmurs, but all she can do is groan as his fingers knead the stiff muscles on her shoulders and back.

#43 - God

The dragon's tail sweeps a quarter of the archers off the side of the tower, roaring defiance to the pitiful warriors assembled, antlike, at its feet, and for a moment, she is reminded just what this creature is supposed to be: a god.

#39 – Torn

As Loghain plunged the sword into the archdemon's head, she could feel it like a hook behind her belly button, a tearing, ripping feeling of some incredible loss.

#28 – Fortune

A strong hand lifts her from the cracked tiles atop Fort Drakon and she hears a chuckling Antivan voice say, "A few more inches to the left, cara mia, and you would have been squished under the dragon's tail—honestly, you have all the luck."

#29 – Safe

"Somehow, Zevran," she struggles for words, closing her eyes as tears begin to sting the cuts on her face, "you have become… you are _aneth ara_; my safe place."

#09 - King

"I never wanted this, you know," Alistair says, "all I ever wanted was Duncan at my back and you at my side... but now it's too late for either."

#32 – Eye

She's greeting Leliana after it is over and meets Alistair's eye—is he still angry, she wonders—but then his face lights up with a lopsided smile.

#46 - Drive

Bryony can't help but wonder how long Zevran's wanderlust will allow him to stay by her side.

#33 – Never

Leliana sees Bryony watching Zevran flirt his way through the court and starts to ask, "Are you going to let him go" but isn't surprised at all when Bryony answers with, "Never."

* * *

Cara mia = "my dear" (Italian). I like the idea of Antiva being analogous to Italy like Orlais is to France. Elven language borrowed from the Dragon Age wiki.


	6. femSurana and Alistair

This is from waaaaay back during my very first playthrough of DAO. It's a little awkward here and there, but I have some nostalgic fondness for it. XD

femSurana/Alistair

* * *

_"I don't want to talk about this right now."_

Neria managed to keep a calm face as she walked away from the camp fire. She only turned around once, but all she saw was Alistair's back.

She didn't stop walking until reading the edge of the creek that bordered the west end of the camp. Shielded from the curious eyes of her companions, she sat on the ground and wondered how she had let things get so far.

Neria hadn't meant to fall in love with Alistair. There was a Blight coming, for Andraste's sake!

Alistair had been kind and his awkward jokes lightened the despair that seemed so prevalent after her Joining into the Grey Wardens. Then there was their constant battle against scouting parties of darkspawn. They fought well together—Alistair charging in, while Neria backed him up with well-timed bolts of sizzling energy from her staff or magically infused healing. They were deadly pair and it had brought them closer. She sought him out around the campfire more than any of the other eclectic travelers—even if at first the only reason was that she knew him better. From there it had seemed a natural progression. The rose he'd gifted her, the awkward but heartfelt declarations, the tender kisses in stolen moments, and finally, the night together in his tent. Neria had nestled against his chest, warm and secure in the knowledge that they were together and nothing would part them.

At least, that's what she had believed. Now they wanted to make Alistair king. She was thrilled beyond imagining for him—it had been the first thing on her mind ever since he told her about his heritage. Despite his protestations and what he called his "natural" inclination to follow, he was a capable leader. But when she worked up the courage to ask him what that meant for them...

"I don't want to talk about this right now."

Neria bit her lip against the pain in her throat, but her eyes betrayed her anyway. Tears slipped down over her cheeks, darkening the faint Dalish tattoos that spiraled across her face.

She gave a watery chuckle at the irony. The world was about to end, and she was crying over a boy. Of course, their relationship had no right to exist in the first place. Elf and human. Mage and templar. It wasn't meant to be.

If she was honest, Neria wished that her mother was there to counsel her. Unconsciously, she had looked to Wynne in the past couple of months for that counsel and had appreciated hearing the elder woman's wisdom. But this was something she could not go to Wynne about—the senior enchanter had made clear her doubts about Neria's relationship with Alistair. Going to her now would be a confirmation of those doubts.

"What did you do, Mother, when my father left you?" The whispered words brought no answer. Neria touched the place on her cheek where her tattoo, the only relic of her life before the Circle, curled into a delicate design. Children bought to the Circle were stripped of all that connected them to their lives outside. It made the transition easier—or at least that was always what she'd been told.

She hadn't known her father—she knew only that he had been Dalish, or at least had lived among them for some time, enough that he'd been moved at her birth to give her the traditional facial tattoos. But he'd left soon after and her mother had never mentioned him voluntarily after that short explanation. She didn't even know his name. Then Neria had been discovered by the Circle of Magi, and she hadn't thought of her father in the safe embrace of magical study.

Neria wished for the Circle now. Wished for the enchantment of books, and the excitement for learning she'd felt as an apprentice... the safety of the stone walls. There she was cut off from the world, from the Blight, from the possibility of a broken heart.

Well, there was Jowan of course. But that had been a mere infatuation and the pain of his betrayal was more due to their bond of friendship, not because she had hoped one day that they might be more than friends.

"Neria?" Wynne's gentle voice called to her. Neria froze, hoping the older woman hadn't spotted her. But the older woman must have sensed her presence, for she came right to where Neria sat.

"Leliana and Zevran have cooked up something between them for supper. Orlesian cooking and Antivan cooking combined... it's bound to be interesting, at the very least."

"I... am not hungry." Her voice caught on a word, and Neria cleared her throat, trying to cover it up.

Wynne stood silent for a moment and then Neria felt her warm, softly wrinkled hand on her shoulder.

"My dear, I will not repeat what has already been said, but I must say this: Do not cling to him, for it will only drive him further away. This burden is his and no matter how much you wish it, you cannot take it from him."

Neria turned to face the older woman. Angry and hurt, she had once accused the senior enchanter of knowing nothing of love, but in Wynne's face now she saw the same pain that must be on her own.

Wynne squeezed her shoulder. "I will occupy the worst of the chatterboxes if you wish to stay a little longer."

Neria managed a smile. "Even if it means letting Zev go on about your bosom?"

Wynne gave a resigned sigh. "Yes, I would even go as far as that." She looked over her shoulder. "I will wander back first; give you a few minutes to dry your eyes."

"Wynne, have I been very foolish?"

"No, my dear." She paused. "I don't believe that love—true love—is ever foolish."

As Neria waited for Wynne to get back to the fire, something the older woman had said once came back to her. She had said that love was inherently selfish... but perhaps it didn't have to be.

She didn't get the chance to talk to Alistair privately for several days. At first, it was simply the exhausting nature of their traveling and the occasional battle with beasts, bandits, and darkspawn. Every night Neria climbed into her tent—alone—too tired to think of bringing up an issue that was painful to them both.

One morning, Neria woke early, before anyone else. The air was crisp and clear—her breath steamed as she breathed out. It would be a cold day and bright—easier to see the glint of weapons in the distance.

She heard a rustle and a muffled oath and then Alistair emerged from his tent, bleary eyed and hair disheveled. He saw her and stopped.

"Well this isn't awkward at all," he said with a half-grin.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," Neria started toward him. Alistair looked cornered suddenly, a wary look on his face.

"I just wanted you to know before we get to Redcliffe, that…" Neria bit her lip, trying to feel that confidence that everyone assumed she had naturally. Words she had treasured to her heart rose again in her mind: _Maker's breath, you're beautiful_.

"If you are chosen as the next king, I don't want to stand in your way. I… I believe I will always love you, Alistair, but I…" her throat tightened. "But I understand that Ferelden needs a king to unite her more than anything. I… I was foolish, naïve to even say something like… that."

She dared to look up and the look in his eyes made her knees weak. It was the same look he'd given her right before their first kiss.

"Neria…"

"Oh will you both shut up and get a tent somewhere? Preferably somewhere far, far away? Or even off the side of the cliff if you can manage it. Some mortals are still trying to sleep!"

"Morrigan! Why'd you have to interrupt? He was about to confess his undying love for her! It's so romantic, I can hardly bear it!"

"So long as we're talking about sharing tents…."

"NO, Zevran, you cannot have a peek at my bosom."

"_Parshaara._ And this is what we're facing the archdemon with?"

The earth shook as Shale stomped over to where Alistair and Neria were still standing. Shale's glowing eyes narrowed as she looked at the elf.

"Does it wish me to squish the other Grey Warden's head? I will gladly do so and it need not even order me."

"No, Shale. It's okay."

Alistair looked smug. "I told you she likes me better."


	7. Prompt: Inside Out Upside Down

**Prompt: Inside Out, Upside Down  
**

* * *

It wasn't long into his marriage to Anora that Alistair made some changes in the decor of their room. Mostly, it was the portrait of Maric that he removed.

He couldn't say why, exactly. He'd never felt anything for his father (a term he disliked; "sire" would be more appropriate, since life was the only thing he'd gotten from the dead king). If anything, there was the distant respect one was obligated to feel for a hero of legend like Ser Garahel or Ser Aveline.

It wasn't until one of the older servants remarked upon his physical similarity to Maric that he realized why it bothered him.

When he was alive, Maric had a lovely wife, a hero in her own right and a strong woman that the songs still sang of, yet he chose to tumble a serving girl, ignoring his vows simply for a night of passion. Alistair had skirted around his true opinion on the subject when asked about it with his usual attempts at humor, but peeling back the layers and he felt the true brunt of the emotion: disgust.

Like a sock to the gut, Alistair realized that he was no better than Maric. He was married and bound to Anora, yet he kept his dear Warden on the side like some sweetmeat to indulge himself in. Not only that, he had not put up much of a fight when she'd proposed the idea of the "ritual" with Morrigan. He'd gone from professing to love one woman and only one for as long as he lived, to bedding three different women in the space of a few weeks.

Alistair abruptly stood from his desk where he'd been sitting, staring at paperwork that needed done. Ringing for servants, he ordered bath water to be drawn up in a brusque tone unlike his usual easy familiarity. After the bath was full, he quickly shed his clothes, scraping them into a pile as if they were filthy rags instead of the finest linen. He scrubbed at his skin until it was pink, but it was no use. The truth wouldn't be gotten rid of so easily.

He had his happy ending, but at the price of his integrity.


	8. Prompt: paperwork

******Prompt: Paperwork**  


* * *

Oddly enough, it's the paperwork that does him in. Alistair's mind has no trouble focusing on the task at hand when it is the solemnity required for the Joinings he now performs, for sparring in the ring, or even for laughter and drinks in the mess in the evenings. It's when he is alone, in his office with the mounds of paperwork required for the arl of Amaranthine and Commander of the Grey that he remembers her; sometimes he thinks he smells her perfume and he jolts out of his seat, heart thudding, but there's never anything or anyone there.

He can picture her now almost as if she were standing before him. She'd rest her hands on his shoulders, tease him gently about being married to his desk, and if he insisted on working, she'd probably sit on the desk, right on the paper he was supposed to be looking at and she'd bat those eyes of hers, thread her fingers through his hair and-

A door out in the hallway bangs open and he hears Oghren's drunken laughter. Quickly, he wipes his face and stands to prod the fireplace with the poker. Maybe he can claim that smoke got in his eyes.

* * *

_A/N: FYI, the Alistair in this drabble is the same one that appears in my larger fic "Guide Me Home." _


	9. Prompt: We can try again tomorrow

******Prompt:**** We can try again tomorrow**  


* * *

At the sight of the blood in her smallclothes, the Queen of Ferelden feels her throat grow tight with pain. The woman who killed the archdemon powerless to stop tears running down her face.

She takes care of the the matter as she has for every month since she turned fourteen and resumes her morning routine.

Alistair notices, even though she has dried her tears. But then, he isn't as foolish as he likes to pretend to be. He asks her what's wrong and when she tells him, he doesn't grimace like she's expecting. Doesn't sigh longingly, doesn't suggest a concubine, or recount how he regrets marrying her - any number of things that she could imagine for the barren hole that is her womb.

Instead, he holds her close, kisses her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. He pulls away slightly to hold her hands, looking into her eyes.

"It's alright, my love," he says without a trace of bitterness. "We can try again tomorrow."

And they will and somehow, like everything else they've been through, they will survive this too.


	10. Prompt: Vhenadahl

******Prompt:**** Vhenadahl**  


* * *

Tamlen's body was lighter than it should have been. She remembered a day when his arms had been lean with muscle, but the darkspawn taint had seemingly drained his body of health, leaving a ghastly shell where her beloved friend had once been.

Still, it was unwieldy and she had to carry it far from camp, away from the water lest it taint the land around it.

"Kadan," Sten's voice caught her up short, "the pyre for the other darkspawn is that way."

She didn't stop, forcing the large qunari to take a few steps to keep pace with her.

"This isn't a darkspawn," she said in a soft voice. "This is my friend."

He didn't respond for a moment. "Do you require assistance, kadan?"

"No," she said, looking over at him with a small smile, "but I would like it all the same."

He said nothing, but continued at her side. When she arrived at a suitable spot, she laid Tamlen down carefully, folding his claw-like hands over his wasted frame. The few wisps of hair he had left on his skull she smoothed over so it wasn't so wild. Sten helped her gather wood, bringing back a burning brand from the other, larger fire to help start this one.

She and Sten watched as Tamlen's body burned and she murmured the traditional words, tears streaming down her face: _"Lethallin na melana sahlin emma ir abelas sourver'inan isala..."_

Sometime later, when there was nothing but a pile of ash left of the pyre, Sten stood back and watched as she dug a hole in the ground, scooping the ash inside. On top of that, she placed a seed. It was from a tree in the Dalish camp that she'd gathered the day before she and Tamlen had found the cave. She'd kept it in her pack ever since as a reminder of home, but it seemed right now that it should fulfill its true purpose here in this lonely clearing: a Vhenadahl.


	11. Prompt: Babies!

******Prompt:**** Babies!**  


* * *

Elissa and Alistair had given up on having children of their own. They had sacrificed the chance for an heir to get Ferelden back on her feet again. Perhaps it would have been the better plan for him to marry Anora, but it was too late for "could have beens."

It wasn't that Elissa didn't _want_ children - there had been countless nights crying herself to sleep - but now the wound was starting at last to scar over. There were important things to tend to besides child-bearing, or the attempt thereof.

So when Avernus sent his latest potion, she and Alistair drank it down, barely glancing at the letter he sent. Whatever extended their lives a good one as far as they were concerned. The throne would likely go to Teagan but before then he had to make sure that the Bannorn would support him and for that, he needed to live as long as possible past the Grey Warden span of thirty years.

A couple of weeks after Avernus's delivery, Elissa was in bed, so ill she could barely move except to bow over the chamber pot again.

Alistair, fretful for health, called for a healer mage. The tickle of his healing magic soothed her rebellious stomach for awhile and allowed her to take some nourishment into her body.

"So what is it?" Alistair asked the mage as his queen looked tiredly up at them. "Is it the fever that's been running through the Alienage? We were just there not too long ago..."

"No, Your Majesty." The mage's lips twitched in a smile. "I believe I may be the first to congratulate you. The Queen isn't sick... she is pregnant."

Alistair sat down on a nearby chair rather hard.

"You're... sure?" The Queen and Warden-Commander of Ferelden eyed the mage with an intense gaze.

The mage inclined his head. "Positive, Your Majesty. Your babies feel very healthy to me."

Alistair stood back up and grabbed the mage by the collar of his robes. "What do you mean, 'babies'?"


	12. Prompt: I love a man in uniform

******Prompt:**** I love a man in uniform**  


* * *

"I don't see why," Aidyn Tabris scowled as she paced, "Orlesian Wardens should dictate what Fereldan Wardens should wear."

"Well," Alistair's voice was muffled through the door to their open bedroom, "there are more of them..."

"My leathers were perfectly serviceable. The archdemon didn't complain about my not having a proper Grey Warden uniform."

"Your leathers are in shreds, my dear."

"Details." Aidyn shrugged. "Duncan didn't wear 'official' Grey Warden armor," she pointed out.

"But he talked about getting some," Alistair said. "He was more concerned about the coming Blight though. Besides, matching custom-made armor for many Grey Wardens takes a budget we didn't possess until now, _Warden-Commander_."

Aidyn snorted, crossing her arms across her chest. "Yes, well, you can thank the Queen for that. Not me." She huffed out a breath. "That's it. I'll just give Anora back her money and we won't have to deal with... new... uniforms..." Her voice trailed off as Alistair came through the door, outfitted in the new Grey Warden armor that Senior Warden Stroud had brought over from Orlais, all blue and silver with a magnificent griffon on his broad chest.

"What?" Alistair said, eyes widening, and looking down at himself. "What's wrong? Is there a scratch? Did I miss a buckle somewhere?"

Aidyn grinned, sliding up to him and standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. "No... I just changed my mind about Grey Warden uniforms."


	13. Prompt: I would have followed you

******Prompt:**I would have followed you, my brother... my captain... my king.  


* * *

"Well this is it, isn't it?" Alistair gave a nervous chuckle in the hallway outside of the Great Hall.

Aedan Cousland grinned. "Time for your grand entrance, _Your Majesty_."

Alistair grimaced. "It's you they're waiting for. They were practically screaming your name earlier."

Aedan frowned, glancing down the hallway, his eyes distant.

"Alistair," he said, hesitating, "I want you to know that you've been a good friend to me. It wasn't... easy becoming a Warden so soon after..." His voice roughened and he cleared his throat. "Well, all of this. You made it easier."

Alistair shifted, embarrassed. "You would have done as much for me had our roles been shifted."

Aedan shook his head. "No, you've always been the better man and you deserve this."

Alistair opened his mouth but couldn't think of anything witty to say to defuse the awkward... _affection_ coloring the other man's words.

"I can't stay for your coronation, I'm afraid." Aedan gave him a small smile.

"You're going after her aren't you?"

Aedan nodded. "You were right, Alistair. About the archdemon, about Morrigan." He swallowed. "I should have followed you—"

Alistair interrupted him. "I wasn't going to make a decision like that—how could I? I was glad to leave it up to you."

Aedan shook his head with a laugh. "I should have stepped back and let you lead from the start. Perhaps I wouldn't have fallen for her; perhaps she wouldn't be running away with my... my child." He stepped forward, gripping Alistair's armored shoulder. "I would have followed you, my brother... my captain..." He let his arm fall away and bowed deeply in the style of the court, "my king."

Then he turned and walked away, the torches fluttering his wake.


	14. Prompt: Travel size for your convenience

******Prompt:** Travel size for your convenience  


* * *

The queen stepped out of the cell, patting her hair into place, and stopped dead when she spotted her rescuers.

"_You're_ the Grey Warden?" she said incredulously.

Natia hefted her axe, glancing down the hallway. "Yeah, what of it?"

Anora exchanged a glance with her elven maid. "Well... it's just... you're... smaller than I expected."

Natia put her hands on her hips. "Listen, queenie, I'm travel-size for your convenience. Now can we get out of here before what's-his-face gets wind that you're escaping?"

"Yes, fine. Let's go."


	15. Prompt: This should be enough

******Prompt:** This should be enough  


* * *

The thought of killing Rendon Howe, of sliding her blade between his ribs, had kept her going for months now. She could take the endless traipsing through the Deep Roads in search of a crazed Paragon; she could laugh at sloth demons that attempted to ensnare her in a maze of dreams - with the arl's death shining like a beacon in front of her, she could do anything. She dreamed of that moment, of looking into his dying gaze and saying, "that should be enough." Enough to repay the blood that would never be washed from Highever Castle, enough to satisfy Oren's lost future, and her own future without the weight of the taint in her blood.

But now, as she stood over Howe's body, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, she realized that it wasn't enough. The hole in her heart was still raw and empty and mere revenge would never fill it.


	16. Prompt: Bodahn Feddic's finest hour

**Prompt: Bodahn Feddic's finest hour  
**

* * *

Bodahn held his torch closer to the pile of rubble. This might have been a home at some point. Surely there would be something worth scavenging inside?

"Faulk," he said, standing straighter to call to his business partner, "come over here and help me clear this. Could be something inside, eh?"

Faulk grumbled, muttering about useless trips to the Deep Roads, but came over. The pickings hadn't been plentiful this time around. Darkspawn had passed through the area recently, taking anything of value, though why they looted the old thaigs was anyone's guess. It's not like darkspawn went to the market. Perhaps it was simply destruction for its own sake. Bodahn shook off the idle thoughts as he and Faulk heaved the heavier pieces of rubble away.

"This is pointless," Faulk complained, huffing out a breath as they carefully set a large rock aside. "We haven't found anything valuable for days."

"There's bound to be something," Bodahn said cheerfully. "Not many dwarves are as brave as we are to come down here."

"Might as well be sodding Legionnaires," Faulk muttered. "You know it as well as I, Bod, that if we don't find something soon—and something _good_—the carta will come and take their share out of our flesh."

Bodahn didn't reply. They'd finally cleared the rubble to reveal a hole big enough for them to craw through and through the gap, he heard something.

Faulk stopped his grousing as he heard the noise too, a faint snuffling sound. The older dwarf tensed, hand reaching for the club on his back.

"Deepstalker?"

Bodahn shrugged nervously. "We haven't seen any of their nests or burrow holes."

Faulk hefted his club. "Well, maybe we should—"

He broke off as a muffled but very dwarven "'Allo?" came from within the house.

"Bless my ancestors!" Bodahn gasped, hurrying over to the house. "There's someone in there!" He peered into the hole, passing the torch back to Faulk to hold. "Hello in there? Don't worry we'll get you out!" He wriggled through, the darkness inside enveloping him. Faulk poked the torch through the hole, enabling Bodahn to the outlines of what must have been a sitting area, and a very small, very grimy dwarf child standing in the middle of the room, sniffing and swiping a hand under his nose.

"'Allo," the boy said with a vacant smile.

"Are you alright, boy?" Bodahn said gently. "Are you hurt?"

The boy just stared at him, but didn't seem to mind when Bodahn inspected him for wounds. Amazingly enough, he seemed unharmed, if a little thin.

"Come on, lad, let's leave this place. I'll get you some food and water."

The boy's large blue eyes lit up at the mention of food. "Yes, please!"

Bodahn led the boy to the front of the house and helped him get through the gap in the collapsed rubble. The boy stood blinking owlishly in the light of the torch that Faulk held near him.

"Well that's just sodding great. What are we supposed to do with this?" Faulk scowled, swatting the boy's hands away which had reached up to the torch.

"No, no, my lad. Hot," Bodahn admonished and reached into his pack for the dried nug jerky and travel bread he'd been planning to eat for lunch. The boy latched onto the food quickly, cramming it into his mouth.

Faulk leaned closer to the boy. "Well, who are you? How'd you get down here?"

The boy looked up, face sprinkled with crumbs. "Boom," he said thickly.

"Bodahn," Faulk said, rubbing a hand over his face, "the boy's lyrium addled. We can't take him back to Orzammar."

Bodahn glanced up, giving the child his waterskin, and frowned. "Well, what are we supposed to do, leave him here?"

Faulk nodded. "Yes. You know as well as I that he'll be a liability, a drain on resources you don't have. Leave him here. It's likely he was abandoned by his parents anyway—let him return to the Stone. It'd be a mercy."

The boy grinned up at Bodahn, lips wet with water. "Thank you."

Bodahn stood up, glaring at Faulk, determination such as he'd rarely felt hardening his resolve. "I am not leaving this poor child here to starve or be eaten by deepstalkers."

Faulk scowled and turned his back. "Fine. You want to take care of this dust-eater? That's your problem. I want nothing to do with it. I'm going back."

Faulk's footsteps faded into the distance. Bodahn sighed and slipped his pack back on. A small hand tugged at his arm. He turned to find the boy holding a bracelet—dusty and dented, but still with a valuable gleam—in his hand.

"I like the shiny," the boy said with another toothy grin.

Bodahn felt his mouth drop open. "Where did you find this, lad?"

The boy stared for a moment then pointed back toward the house.

Bodahn hesitated. He could explore it all now, find the treasures that Faulk had not wanted to stay to find. But... He glanced at the boy who, despite the meal, seemed still hungry and was very dirty. The boy needed to be cleaned up and a proper hot meal in him, not just a few crumbs from a lunch. The treasures could wait.

"Come on, boy. Let's go home." He took the boy's hand in his and started walking.


	17. Prompt: Thousands of roses

**Prompt: Thousands of roses  
**

* * *

Elissa stared at the old, dried rose, her fingertips touching the wrinkled petals.

"What are you looking at, my love?" Alistair's cheerful voice came over her shoulder. "Oh."

She managed a smile. "We were so very young, weren't we?"

Alistair pulled her against him, kissing the top of her head. "It wasn't _that_ long ago."

"And yet..." Elissa stood straight, out of safety of his arms, and walked toward the shut door to the room they never used and never spoke of.

"Elissa—"

"Yet it has been a very. Long. Time." She opened the door to the royal nursery. Dust motes swirled in the air; sheets covered the cradle, the rocking chair, a small table. New—never used; never needed, but always wanted.

Alistair came up behind her, rubbing his hands on her arms and shoulders. He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. "It is alright my love—"

"No. It isn't," she said softly. "This room is... empty. Forgive me, I... need some fresh air." She whirled away form him, skirts rustling against the stone floor, leaving her husband and the empty nursery behind.

#

The next day, Elissa laughed as Alistair gently tied a scarf around her eyes and pulled her to standing. "What are you doing?"

"Hush. You'll see."

Bursting with curiosity, but willing to let Alistair go through with whatever he was doing, she allowed him to lead her to the palace. She could tell he was trying to be a little sneaky, leading her through a few unnecessary turns, doubling back a couple of times, but she still knew where they were and stiffened.

"No, Alistair, please. I opened it earlier this week—I have no desire to see it again, ever."

She felt his fingers reach up to cup the side of her face, his thumbs rubbing against her cheeks.

"Do you trust me?"

She swallowed, nodding against his hands.

"Then, open your eyes." He untied the scarf around her head.

She inhaled a shuddering breath, expecting the familiar, hollow scent of the dusty, unused nursery. But to her surprise, she smelled—

She opened her eyes. The nursery had been... changed. Where before was darkness and cobwebs, now lay warm, inviting sunlight over freshly whitewashed walls whose bright cleanness only accentuated what must be thousands of roses of every different color. They covered every surface, spilling out of the chest of drawers, laying on the table like a thick blanket. Someone had even spread their petals underfoot. And, in the cradle, lined with fresh blankets, was a single red rose, much like the one he'd given her so long ago.

"Alistair..." She couldn't say anything else.

He leaned toward her, resting his forehead against hers. "I need no one else but you, dearest Elissa. You are and will always be, my rare and wonderful thing in the middle of the darkness of life."


	18. CouslandNathaniel Howe snippet

**A/N:** So, I haven't written DA fic in ages, but I found this snippet of an attempt to do an LJ 100 sentence story challenge, and I don't think I'll ever finish it. So here it is, a sort of finished femCousland/Nathaniel fic in the form of a few sentences.

* * *

#38 – Sojourn  
As Naeva walked down the road toward Vigil's Keep, she hoped that the last six months of avoiding Alistair and Anora, of feeling her heart bleed a little each time he looked her direction, would finally be something she could put behind her.

#23 – Question  
He almost doesn't recognize her when she steps into the dungeon—but the tilt of her head, the curve of her throat all proclaim the identity of the Hero of Fereldan and all he can do as he looks into her startled gaze is ask, "Why?"

#11 – Birthday  
The last time she'd seen Nathaniel Howe was at Fergus's sixteenth birthday when he laughed at her for trying to play Dragon Hunter with the rest of the boys—that very same week he'd been shipped off to the Free Marches.

#02 – Waltz  
Nathaniel has to hide his surprise as Naeva whirls and cuts her way through darkspawn as graceful as a dance—where had she learned to fight like that?

#03 – Wishes  
She wishes that Nathaniel had never been sent away, she wishes the Howes and the Couslands could have remained friends, she wishes her father were here to tell her what to do, but more than that she wishes-just once-to feel alive again. 

#09 – War  
"You picked the wrong battle, my brooding friend," Anders says in a cheerful voice as Nathaniel pushes away his drink, groaning, while Oghren simply laughs and refills his tankard.

#28 – Jousting  
The casual barbs back and forth seem outwardly painful, but looking into the storm-gray eyes glaring at her, Naeva hasn't felt this alive in months.

#06 – Whimsy  
He asks her why she gave him the picklocks and she shrugs and replies that she does need them, but when she gives him next the bow, the whetstone, the vase with the Howe crest, he begins to wonder if more than whimsy influences her actions.

#07 - Waste/Wasteland  
No one was more surprised than Nathaniel to discover that his heart, once a barren place he thought only full of hatred for his father's murderer, was instead making a space for the woman he should be hating.

#24 – Quarrel  
She shuts him out of her room and he can hear the lock slide into place—he had misread her so completely—but no, the desire he saw in her eyes was as real as what he felt.

#31 – Smirk  
As he opens the locked chest, Nathaniel's liquid velvet voice murmurs "Does this please you?" in a way calculated to make her knees tremble, but one look at the smug look on his face and she endeavors to hide the longing on her face with a scowl.

#14 – Burning  
His hands are like fire on her skin and she can't stop the whimper that trembles from her mouth as his fingers trace a teasing pattern down her spine.

#39 – Share  
"There is no one else in the world whom I'd rather share my life with; no one else has my heart so completely," he says, hands holding tight to hers.

#08 - Whiskey and rum  
"You're going to marry him, aren't you," Fergus says, his words slurring as he reaches for the decanter again, but Naeva stills his hand, saying, "I love him, Fergus, but if you wish it… I will send him away."

#49 – Victory  
The rain beats against the doors of the Chantry like an army at siege, but inside Naeva's hands are joined with Nathaniel's—a Cousland and a Howe—and as the traditional words are spoken over them, a battle ends, not with a shout, but a kiss.


End file.
